Work Text:
He swears that the bottle was half full just an hour ago. The screen seems blurry and Q has to blink a few times to clear his vision. His laptop’s clock reads 00:01. Well, the bottle was half full three hours ago. It’s a nice bottle of whiskey too. Some special, limited run, expensive thing Felix had brought over from America when James had finally introduced him to Q. That’s where the first half of the bottle had gone. What a wonderful, carefree night that had been, sharing stories and jokes with the two agents. Showing off his genius to Felix. Noticing the glint of pride in James’ eyes. It’s a shame that the bottle is being finished in such a sad atmosphere. At least it’s a poetic end. Drinking the whiskey while mourning the two who brought it to him.
He looks back over at the laptop and can't quite remember why he was on it in the first place. There are several tabs open including a word document where at some point he must have written the words, "I loved my friend."
“Brilliant, Q. Poetic and depressing. You’re the next Shakespeare, drinking memories, wishing you had created even more, and writing out all those bloody feelings.”
But, oh, drunk Q's brain goes, wouldn't that be helpful? Writing out how you felt? Especially since it's him. Always so many thoughts about him. James bloody Bond. Either his bright blue eyes that always seemed to shine when they looked at Q. And that tan skin, riddled with scars from his service. In another life perhaps, they would've acted on whatever it was building between them. Given another chance, maybe Q would have said something. God knows, they both know that life is too short. Both knew. Past tense now.
“Fine," Q declares to the empty room as he snatches a piece of paper from his printer. He furiously takes a sip from his last glass of whisky and uncaps his pen.
‘I loved my friend,' he starts.
Every word he writes rips something inside of him. All of the things that he could have and should have done. Another confession, another missed opportunity, another, another, another. There are no more chances. No more miracles. No resurrections this time. He smashes his pen back down onto the paper hating himself. He should've thought faster, found another solution to bring James home. He should've better equipped him to go out, given him another gadget. He's so caught up in dumping out his feelings onto the damn paper that he doesn't notice his cat jumping up on to the table until it's too late.
SMACK!
Q's glass hits the table sending the ice cube flying and the amber liquid cascading out of the crystal vessel all over his laminate table and writing. Q himself recoils back, leaving an ugly slash on his last word. More liquid joins the alcohol as tears begin to leak from Q's eyes, one by one splotching against the paper. And as if someone has opened the flood gates to a river, Q begins to cry in earnest taking in big shaky, hiccuping breaths. He rips himself out of his chair to get away from the page and just barely keeps his feet underneath himself as he stumbles away from the desk.
“Oh, god."
He closes his eyes and jams his palms up into them attempting to make himself see colors when all he sees are Bond's vital signs flat lining on his screen.
“Christ."
The poem soaks through like blood through the shirt of a wounded agent.